For Honor, page 18
part #17 of Tom Clancy's Op-Center Series
“¡Viva la revolución!” she said again, only this time the phrase was muttered, not to the sky but into her vest as her chin drooped to her chest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Op-Center Headquarters, Fort Belvoir North,
Springfield, Virginia
July 2, 1:00 A.M.
“Miss me already?”
“I wish it was that,” Williams told him. “They just picked her up for abetting an arsonist at the facility. She’s probably on her way to where you were.”
“I did see a patrol car leave after we spoke,” he said. “I’m going back. Without her, we’ve got nothing.”
“I agree,” Williams said. “I’ll get whatever I can on this end.”
The director called Kathleen to watch for any updates, then headed to the Tank. As he arrived, she was just bringing up a file from MacDill Air Force Base.
“Since it had to do with Lourdes, they followed the fire,” she told him.
“You have a name on the accuser?” Williams asked.
Kathleen returned to the police report. “Mauricio Modesto.”
“Get me everything you can on him,” Williams said as he texted McCord:
Working on plan to help her. Talk before executing.
The director leaned over the back of Kathleen’s chair. “What was the timeline of events, starting from the fire?”
Kathleen provided those, along with the two cash withdrawals Dr. Bermejo had made, the first at 7:33 that evening.
“So according to Mauricio, she left the compound with Enrich presumably in the car. Then she drove to Havana, withdrew money, and probably bought him a bus ticket and whatever he’d need because he obviously couldn’t go home. After that she hung around until he left—on what bus?”
“I don’t have that information but the first cash withdrawal was near the Havana Zoo. There’s a bus kiosk there which services the route to Varadero, which is about seventy miles to the east. There are stops all along the coast.”
“He obviously bikes there, maybe motorbike, or he wouldn’t need a bus to get home.”
“Bicycles are the number one mode of transportation among the populace,” she said. “Happened between the end of Soviet oil and the rise of Venezuelan imports.”
Williams was impressed and said so with a “Hmmph.”
“You start collecting intel, you have to at least scan related links,” she said. “All right. Mauricio Modesto. Age twenty-six, and—here we are—trade school auto mechanic, was a motorbike repairman during his stint with the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias, the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces. Undistinguished career, two disciplinary reports—”
“Where are you getting this?”
She grinned. “His police record.”
“Oh? Then how the hell did he get work as a security guard at—”
“Like this,” she said, bringing up a social media item.
Williams read the automatic translation that appeared beside an online photo album belonging to Modesto. He nodded with understanding.
“He married a Russian girl,” he said. “Iya Firsova.”
“Want to bet that if I looked her up I’d find she’s related to someone at the facility?” Kathleen said.
“No doubt,” Williams said.
It was an old Soviet tactic, marrying an ordinary man and planting him in a position to provide pillow-talk on unrecorded activities of those around him. There were some intelligence officials who said the so-called Red Wedding program reached its zenith with Lee Harvey Oswald and Marina Nikolayevna Prusakova in 1961—two years before he allegedly assassinated President Kennedy. He doubted it would be any consolation to Dr. Bermejo, but even without the incident on the bus, Mauricio would probably have said something to Iya that would eventually have implicated the scientist.
“This is great,” Williams said. “Do we have access to any security cameras in the old section of—”
There was an alert that sounded simultaneously on the computer and on Kathleen’s secure smartphone. If she had gone home, she would not have been able to access the data, only the case reference and FPCON assessment—the Force Protection Condition assessment, ranging from “Normal” through “Alpha,” “Bravo,” “Charlie,” and “Delta.”
“OA Bravo,” she said. That was her intelligence file for Operation Anadyr with the potential risk-threat that requires attention. “We have an aircraft anomaly leaving the airspace of Afghanistan headed northeast and entering Tajikistan—an Iranian military jet off the normal flight paths.”
“They operate there illegally all the time,” Williams said. “What’s this about?”
“An algorithm,” she said. “The aircraft is a 707, long range. Given our current intelligence search parameters, the program is letting us know that the plane, the timing, and the direction indicate a possible destination of interest.” She looked up at the director. “Anadyr.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Havana, Cuba
July 2, 1:07 A.M.
Feeling highly visible and self-conscious about the clack-clack-clack of the suitcase he was dragging behind—Spies are supposed to be invisible, McCord reminded himself only half-jokingly—he hefted it up and carried it at his side. It was the last thing his tired arms or equally cranky right-side hip wanted, but at least the effort brought renewed life to his tired eyes.
The streets were relatively empty. Workers on graveyard shifts across Havana were already at or en route to their destinations, daytime workers were home, and mostly late-night drinkers and their dates were afoot.
As he returned to the police station, McCord was reminded of most of the third world cities he had visited, from Beirut to Manila, from Jakarta to Pyongyang: dispirited activity moved sluggishly through a metropolis that once knew or flirted with greatness. The old buildings weren’t historic so much as they were wreckage, decaying structures patched and repurposed over the centuries as new leaders attempted to jumpstart prosperity in fractured societies.
It was a tragic scenario that played out from without and within. As imperialist nations were ousted, local tribes or clashing political ideologies or religious hatreds fed on what was left. What emerged, without fail, was a city that resembled one of those zombies on cable TV: something in motion but not really alive.
The danger to McCord throughout his twenty-three years of service was always to not enter these places feeling superior. Like the tiny mammals who survived as the big dinosaurs began dying off, there were always rodents and insects in hiding to pick on the flesh. So he remained alert, and now he was silent. He weaved as he walked, avoiding cones of light from streetlamps or the occasional automobile or still-lit neon signs.
All of this was both training and intuition. It freed his mind so he could actively concentrate on the matter at hand: within the next five minutes, coming up with a way of seeing Dr. Bermejo, discrediting the accuser, and somehow getting her out of prison.
If this were Ramadi, he would be going in with a unit, weapons, tactical and intelligence support, and backup. He could stage a clean and quick rescue and evac. At military-civilian meet-and-greets, the “unenlisted” as he called them always remarked about McCord’s résumé, about the courage and skill his special intelligence operations demanded. He smiled and very politely accepted the compliments, but there was invariably a knowing look at a fellow soldier or officer. They knew that success depended on training, teamwork, intelligence, and a solid plan. Once you pulled the “go” trigger, you were part of a machine that was driven by purpose so absolute that it steamrollered fear.
Walking alone, in the small hours of the night, in a city where your only map was on your smartphone and you only just passably spoke the native tongue; that was not a military operation. That was—
What? he asked himself as he eyeballed the police station, reminded himself of the layout that he had instinctively noted, remembered the faces of everyone he saw. What do I call this?
He grinned in spite of the urgency of the moment, or perhaps because of it. He grinned because he had once tried to explain it to his wife with whom he could never discuss these occasional missions.
That is Op-Center, he thought. And within that there was always a crunch point that was at once daunting and exhilarating, what he called the Thomas Paine moment—
The smartphone hummed in the vest pocket of McCord’s white shirt. It was a call. He didn’t think Williams would be calling him with more halfheartedly coded communiqués; not this close to the station.
“The accuser has been married for seventeen months to a Russian national, a niece of the associate director of the foreign office at the station,” Williams said without preamble. “He has a bank account considerably larger than his salary would suggest.”
McCord suspected that many Cuban government workers had that as well, graft being extensive. Turning Enrich in had an added benefit, however. Cuba undoubtedly had a deal with the Russians that included hiring a large percentage of locals, similar to what nations did with embassies around the globe. If those locals could be proven to be untrustworthy, if each could be forced to reveal the names of one or two accomplices, they could be replaced by Russians or Russian sympathizers. That sealed security even tighter but that was only part of the objective. To make up for the loss to the local economy, Russian investment would be welcome. That was how governments were co-opted. That was how the Mafia came to own Havana under Batista.
“So we play it as a plot against the lady,” McCord said.
“Affirmative. Enough to create doubt, but you’ll also need to get to see her tonight.”
“Got it,” McCord said as he reached the station. But then he replayed something Williams had just said. “How essential is the timing—”
“Very,” Williams said bluntly. “We have a convergence of elements that indicate a fast-developing situation. We need more intel ASAP.”
“Understood,” McCord replied. “I’ll contact after,” he said, thumbing off the phone as he reached the wide, sloping walk that lead to the main courtyard of the Comandancia General.
That was something else civilians didn’t understand, not the way he and Williams and many of the Op-Center brass did. Most police officers he had met knew it to: how difficult it was to shift from by-the-book to seat-of-the-pants. Not in terms of heroics; most of the service personnel McCord had known and served with had a strong streak of cowboy in them. If they hadn’t, they would have been in military maintenance or communications or some other support position. That wasn’t a knock, it was the nature of the man or woman who served in the field. What was difficult was reconciling the needs of the nation versus the rules of the bureaucrats. And that, in the end, was why a bureaucrat at the top of the food chain, President Midkiff, had reactivated Op-Center. That was what earned it the nickname, the Ranch.
The weariness in his limbs left him, and the alertness in his eyes and ears sharpened, as the Thomas Paine moment was suddenly, vibrantly upon him:
“These are the times that try men’s souls.…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Zagan, Poland
July 2, 7:15 A.M.
Mike Volner was told that it was a respected custom for first-time observers who were about to depart.
One of the Polish officers had taken Volner aside after the previous night’s meal and told him that hand-to-hand combat between officers of equal standing was not only expected, it was honorable. The major didn’t believe it, not for a moment, but said he would never be one to break with tradition. The suggestion had the earmarks of being a game of “Embarrass the American,” which was common among the NATO officer ranks. But the major’s celebrated action in New York had preceded him and, setup or not, he didn’t care. He was happy for the challenge after days of standing in a tower or on a gunnery range and—the word that had stuck in his gullet—observing.
“Observing what, sir?” he had pointedly asked his CO before he was sent over.
General March had responded with the schedule, but that wasn’t what Volner had meant. Informing Chase Williams that he would not be available to command any JSOC operations for the duration, at least the director had a frank answer for him:
“You are being sent there to be observed, Major. Not only by the troops but by the press military and international press. Get used to that, at least until the next soldier makes headlines.”
And so Volner did his duty with as much stature and dignity as he could muster. Now, he got to shuck that in a showdown that probably wasn’t even legal. Why else would they be holding it before breakfast?
That, too, didn’t matter. It had been a week since Volner had been able to do any rock climbing back at the base, and it had been a month since he last had a Combat Karate workout. The hard-hitting, hard-kneeing martial art was now the preferred form of hand-to-hand combat at many bases, created by Johnny Kuhl in the 1970s and replacing the decades-old over-the-hip Judo throws and Jujitsu fists and elbows. The objective was not to toss or kayo an opponent. The goal was to destroy him.
The rules were mixed martial arts. The term was a misnomer, as “MMA” had none of the finesse of the sharp, elegant, centered kung fu and Wing Chun forms Volner had studied. It was a mishmash of punching, kicking, throws and everything in between, a metaphor for the modern world: everyone learned to fight, and fight violently, typically without honor. Soldiers were not like the WWI pilots in the Enemy Ace comic books he had read as a kid, saluting fallen enemies as their burning planes spiraled to the ground. Today you clashed, just that; hard and kill-oriented. If you were losing, you went for the concealed knife. If it were a knife fight, capture-and-interrogate was an afterthought. The field was a slaughterhouse and the aim was slash and gut.
The site for this engagement was a boxing ring and it did not escape Volner’s notice that the doors of the small gym were locked once the ten officers plus one other combatant had gathered. Volner’s opponent was a Polish major named Marek Ziobro. Volner had been informed shortly after he arrived, and for no apparent reason—probably as a form of psyops, to unnerve him at this moment—that “Marek” meant “warlike.” The description fit. The man was a good four inches over the American’s five-foot-ten, and at least thirty pounds heavier. His thighs were as thick as the barrel chest they supported and his arms were a brutish match.
The men wore trunks, their own athletic footwear, and an ungenerously padded red head guard. There was no mouthpiece to protect the teeth. They wore matching red sparring gloves, which covered the backs of the hands but not the palms. The two entered the ring without corner men. The only “official” was the man who would ring the bell and then join the others watching. There were no rounds, Volner had been told.
“The fight is over when one of you says it is,” one of the three English speakers had advised him adding, with what sounded like a prediction, “or when one of you is unable to say it is.”
They met in the center where they tapped knuckles in a traditional fist-bump and backed away several paces. The canvas had too much give and the ropes even more; the American knew he could not rely on either of them for support. The bell sounded with a hollow gong that needed more than a screwdriver to fix. If any part of the ring were younger than NATO itself, Volner would have been surprised.
The essence of Combat Karate was to move forward in as straight a line as possible, releasing as much firepower as possible along the way. With the six-pack his opponent was showing, Volner knew not to bother hitting there. He was already breathing protectively, the major noticed: tongue to the roof of his mouth to regulate breathing. That would prevent him from hyperventilating and, with a quick, explosive exhale, would also tighten his already formidable abs. He held his arms kickboxer-style: forearms upraised, parallel, fists by his face, elbows just above the belly. The man had done some homework, knew how Volner had trained. Everything “straight ahead” was guarded.
Offensively, the stance also favored the Pole. He could jab straight out with either fist and bring it back to its protective position quite literally in the blink of an eye. The way he was staring, that was obviously what he’d been trained to do: wait till his opponent blinked, then piston the big arm outward.
Volner did not expect that for an open gambit, however, and he stayed just out of reach of the gloves. He wanted to coax the Pole into leading with something else.
There were two places where Ziobro was open. Volner kept his eyes on them while Ziobro advanced—slowly, cautiously, unwilling to underestimate his smaller adversary. Volner retreated tactically, not from fear, and also watched how his opponent walked. Ziobro’s size and the ailing canvas made him somewhat flatfooted. If the man intended to kick, he would announce it by shifting his weight to one leg. The bare muscles of that thigh would tense. His upper torso would begin to list in that direction. All of that would take a second, but that was more than enough time for Volner to respond.
Before the fight, Volner had observed Ziobro, knew he was right-handed. He would probably kick with that side, too. Volner began to circle the big man counterclockwise, one leg crossing behind the other. He wanted to be moving in the opposite direction from a right-leg kick. Nothing obvious … just enough to give him a head start—
The kick came as Volner had expected: a stiff, roundhouse swing toward his left hip accompanied by a loud kiai. The shout was intended to frighten a foe and also marshal one’s own energies. Ziobro not only kicked but pivoted perfectly, swinging the leg faster than Volner had intended. He leapt to his right but the foot caught him in the hip, sending him stumbling to the right. Volner ducked as he regained his footing or the powerful left jab would have landed squarely in Volner’s face—which even the glancing foot-blow had put within range.
Bent at the waist as the first passed overhead, Volner regained the target he had been eyeing before. He had to move quickly while the momentum of the punch still had Ziobro off balance.
